The Experiment
by DobbyRocksSocks
Summary: John needs help with an experiment. Mycroft is only too happy to help.


**Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.**

 **Part of my mass Christmas(ish) Post... I hope you enjoy :P**

* * *

 **The Experiment**

* * *

Mycroft steeped his fingers beneath his chin, his eyes on his little brother. It had been two years, actually closer to three, since he'd seen him, and the novelty of being able to speak openly was still very much apparent.

Spending so long speaking in code would do that to anyone, he supposed.

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"Go home," Sherlock replied, frowning at Mycroft. "Really, Brother, have you deprived your brain of oxygen in my absence? You know how eager I have been to alert John to my being alive!"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock... John isn't at Baker Street."

"Well, where is he?"

"There are a few things you need to know. You asked that John wasn't mentioned in our messages in your... absence, but John, he struggled. Desperately, in fact. He... it was a close thing. Very lucky that there were still surveillance camera's in your flat. I was peeking in on him every few days, just as a precaution you understand, to ensure he was getting over his grief in a healthy manner."

Sherlock nodded slowly. While he'd never actually say it, he was grateful that Mycroft had continued to look after John in his absence. It had been a comfort to know that he hadn't left his blogger all alone.

"I saw him sitting in your chair, his gun on his lap, tears streaming down his face. I left the office immediately of course, but I wasn't sure I'd make it in time. When I got there, he'd placed the gun under his chin and was readying himself to pull the trigger."

"No. John... No. He wouldn't do... that," Sherlock denied. "I don't know what you're playing at, Mycroft, but -"

"Would you like to see the footage?" Mycroft growled, sitting up straighter in his seat. "That man adored you, Sherlock. He worshipped the very ground you walked on! When you 'died', you killed John Watson better than any gun could!"

"Where. Is. He?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. Last I heard from him, he was in Canada, but to whether he is still there, your guess is as good as mine," Mycroft admitted. "The important part at this point is that he alive, and if not happy, then content."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his head tilted as he stared at Mycroft. "You've got feelings for him."

It wasn't a question, and though Mycroft stared back, blank faced, he knew that there would be no fooling Sherlock. "That is neither here nor there."

"Oh my god, you love him! I thought sentimentality was a _weakness_ , Mycroft! John is _mine_!"

"John is abroad, and I won't help you find him," Mycroft replied. "He doesn't deserve the grief that your presence would bring him, and I refuse to be any part of it. I won't hurt him further than I already have."

"You said he checked in with you? When will his next call be?"

"I have no idea. His contact is sporadic."

"Tell him the truth. Tell him I'm alive and waiting for him. If he doesn't come... I won't chase him," Sherlock conceded. Mycroft was ninety eight percent sure that Sherlock was lying.

"No."

"What happened after his suicide attempt?" Sherlock asked then. "He wouldn't have just hopped on a plane the day after, and I highly doubt you would have let him."

"I took a more... prominent role in his recovery. It took a long time, but eventually, the John we remembered could be seen," Mycroft replied, an involuntary smile on his face. "He began living again, but... the sadness was always there. None of us could take it away. Then... he told me he'd like to explore the world a little. What else could I do but help him achieve that?"

"You knew I was coming back! You should have kept him here, dammit," Sherlock snapped.

"Could you be anymore selfish, Sherlock? He was wasting away, stuck here in London, in Baker Street, where you were everywhere. He couldn't escape the memories of you no matter where he went, and that was what he needed."

"You said 'we'. Who is 'we'?"

"Myself, Gregory, Mrs Hudson, Anthea. You were not the only person who cared about John, Sherlock."

Stiffling silence filled the space between them for a moment while Sherlock sulked, before he glared at his older brother. "I will find him, and I will bring him home, Mycroft. You can't stop me."

"And pray, how are you going to do that?"

Sherlock smirked, standing up. "You're not the only person that cares about John, and _vice versa_! Lestrade, Mrs Hudson... maybe even Molly. One of them will tell me where he is."

* * *

He'd been home for three weeks and he'd still had no luck on finding out where John was. Lestrade, Molly, even Mrs Hudson... not a single one of them would tell him when they had last been in contact with John, nor would they give him a number to contact his missing doctor on. They'd all been fittingly shocked when he appeared in front of them, but it just wasn't... satisfying. He didn't want _their_ shock, surprise or happiness. He wanted John's!

He slouched in the chair in front of Mycroft's desk once more, a pout on his lips. He'd decided to ghost his brother until the phone rang, sure that it would have to be soon that John would call. Mycroft was putting his coat on, and Sherlock stood up, moving to follow him.

"You can't follow me all the time, Sherlock. I have things to do, important, private things, that you're not cleared to know about. Seriously, go and annoy Gregory for a case or something, won't you?"

"You know how to get rid of me," Sherlock snapped.

"I will not give you John's number. Stop sulking like a child," Mycroft replied, rolling his eyes. "I'm leaving for the evening. I'm sure I will see you tomorrow if you plan on persisting this infernal adherence to my backside!"

Sherlock followed Mycroft to the car, but the security wouldn't allow him to follow his brother into the backseat. Knowing he could get a cab to follow the car, Sherlock sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. It would be a pointless endeavour he knew. He just felt so... so useless. He missed John. He needed John.

Why didn't anybody understand that?

* * *

Mycroft paced in front of the car, watching the jet lower onto the airstrip. It taxied to a stop, and before the doors were open, Mycroft was striding towards it, the security personnel hurrying along behind him. The door lowered slowly, and seconds later, John was walking down the steps, a small smile on his face.

"Mycroft! You didn't have to pick me up from the airport," he chided gently, though he didn't hesitate to embrace the taller man when he reached the bottom of the steps.

"Nonsense," Mycroft replied, revelling in the scent of John, a scent he feared he would never be able to replicate with any accuracy. "It is very good to see you."

"It's good to see you too," John murmured as he stepped back. "It's good to be home, actually. As much as I enjoyed travelling... well, there's nothing like the familiarity of home, is there?"

"Quite so," Mycroft agreed, leading John to the car. "Come, John. I've had the liberty of your favourite dishes from the Lanesborough."

"You didn't have to do that, you know," John said, shaking his head at Mycroft. "Really, you spoil me."

"Perhaps I'm making an effort so as to tempt you to stay home for a while."

John snorted amused. "I wasn't planning on hopping right back on a plane, Mycroft. I'm happy to be home."

"That is good news," Mycroft murmured, meeting John's eyes with his own. He knew that this was likely the last time John would ever look at him without anger. He didn't have a choice; he had to tell him about Sherlock. Of course, that meant admitting that he'd known the entire time that John struggled that the person he was grieving was in fact alive and kicking.

"What's wrong?" John asked suddenly. "You look... miserable."

Mycroft smiled slightly. John's observation had come on leaps and bounds in the past year, and Mycroft often struggled to get anything past him.

"I... have something I must discuss with you, though if you don't mind, I'd much rather wait until we are in the privacy of my home, with nice food and wine."

John narrowed his eyes slightly, before he nodded. "Okay."

* * *

"That was fantastic," John said as the two of them retired to the lounge. Mycroft nodded, though he hadn't noticed the taste of the food if he was honest. Sitting at the table with John, listening to his amusing recount of his time away, was far more interesting to him.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" John asked, accepting a tumbler of cognac.

Mycroft sat down on the other end of the sofa to John, sipping at his drink. If he ever needed fortification to speak, it was now.

"I'm not sure there's any other way to say this than to just say it, John, so you'll have to excuse my bluntness. I... I should have told you earlier, and I will completely understand if you hate me when I do tell you, but, if you could, perhaps try and remember that I never lied to you to hurt you or -"

"I know Sherlock is alive, Mycroft. I've known for weeks."

Mycroft froze, his mouth still open in what he was sure was quite an unattractive gape. "I... uh... what? How?"

"Mrs Hudson, of course. I'm rather disappointed that you didn't think she'd tell me if I'm honest. I'm also sure that Sherlock was banking on her telling me, and of course, she lived up to his expectations rather beautifully. Poor dear was quite sure I'd fly home immediately for what she hoped to be a tearful reunion before we each professed our undying love and moved back into 221B."

Mycroft could not control the huff of amusement at John's words, and he was internally dancing at the disdain in John's voice at the idea.

"I'm rather certain that me punching him in the mouth isn't the reunion Sherlock is looking for, so I thought it best to try and settle myself before I came home," John added. "But really, Mycroft. To think I'd hate you for protecting your brother is rather a stretch, no?"

"So, you're not angry?" Mycroft asked, trying to keep his hope out of his tone; unsuccessfully.

"Oh, I'm plenty angry, but not at you. Sherlock was the one who jumped, he's the one who forced me to _watch_ , and he's the one that I'm angry with. He could have told me, I would have done anything for him. Anything. I _did_ love him, he was my best friend, how could I not?"

"You realise that as soon as he knows you're back in London, he will track you down, yes?"

"I know," John replied, nodding slightly. "I'm sure he'll be full of explanations, and I'm sure he'll expect everything to go back to how it was. It won't. It can't. He was my life, everything I did was an extension of him, or that would at least benefit him. I won't do that again."

"There were snipers," Mycroft said, unsure why he felt the need to explain on Sherlock's behalf, but doing it anyway. "Three of them, each trained on you, Gregory and Mrs Hudson. If Sherlock didn't jump, you would all have been shot."

"I accept that he felt he had to jump, and I could have lived with that, Mycroft. I'm angry because he left without a thought to those he was leaving behind. He could have let me know, when the danger wasn't as immediate. A text, a note, hell, he could have tapped it out in Morse Code. He could have told me."

Mycroft nodded, because he could see the logic in John's words. Once the snipers had moved on, Sherlock could have gotten a message to John without much hassle. Hell, he could have just told Mycroft to tell him the truth.

"Thank you. For understanding that it was never about keeping you in the dark for me," Mycroft whispered, offering John a tremulous smile.

John returned the smile tiredly, raising a hand to shield a yawn.

"I have the guest bedroom prepared for you," Mycroft said, standing up and offering John a hand which the latter took immediately.

"Thank you. Heaven only knows what would happen if I had to face Sherlock without any sleep."

Mycroft laughed. "I feel that very pain on a daily basis, John. He has taken to hounding me for information on your location as of late. He's been quite persistent about it, as I'm sure you can imagine."

John rolled his eyes but nodded. "Like a dog with a bone, right?"

"Right."

* * *

"John!"

John turned to find himself with an armful of Anthea. He laughed, kissing her cheek in greeting.

"Why is it that I never get such a welcome?" Mycroft asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement as Anthea blushed.

"You're clearly not as dashingly handsome as me," John joked, winking at the PA.

"Are you joining us at the office today, John?" Mycroft asked, leaning against the breakfast bar where the two had been enjoying coffee. "Sherlock will be sure to join us."

John shrugged. "Why not? Might as well get it out of the way, right? I'll be leaving around lunchtime though. I want to drop in on Mrs Hudson, and then I'll be seeing Greg if he's not too busy at work."

"Do they know you're home?"

Shaking his head, John grinned. "Nope."

"You're going to give Mrs Hudson a heart attack," Anthea muttered.

"Good job I'm a doctor then, isn't it?" John replied cheerfully, nudging her lightly with his hip. She just shook her head at him reproachfully while Mycroft chuckled.

Yes, he thought to himself as the three of them exited the kitchen. It was very, very good to have John home.

* * *

"Sir, your brother is here."

Mycroft sighed, glancing at John, before he replied, "Send him through."

John was sitting in the armchair across from Mycroft's, the high back of it hiding him from the anyone stood at the door.

"Have you heard from him?"

"Oh, hello, Sherlock, good to see you too," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes at his brother.

"Yes, yes, have you heard from him?"

"Hmm. Shared a rather brilliant meal from the Lanesborough, actually. You really should try the lamb from there, Sherlock, it's simply sublime."

"No need to be sarcastic, brother," Sherlock muttered, crossing the room.

"He's right. The lamb really is good," John said, standing up and turning to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock was, for once, at a loss for words. He stared at John, not noticing the seconds passing by until John snorted.

"Surely my mere appearance isn't enough to break your rather considerable brain, Sherlock?"

"John."

The word was a whisper, a gasp and a sob.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you," Sherlock murmured stepping closer.

John snorted. "Pretty sure I've got some idea. After all, you knew you'd see me again. I was left with a marble headstone and the never ending picture of my best friend falling to his death in my mind. Not going to lie, Sherlock, I've had better farewells."

"John, I did it for you. Snipers, John, he was going to have you killed!"

"I know. And I'm aware of why you did it, and I'm not angry about that."

"Then, you're not angry with me? You look angry."

"I'm not angry, Sherlock, I'm fucking furious. Yes, I understand the initial act, and no, I don't blame you for doing it. What I blame you for, is the years after that when you could have told me the truth and you didn't. I'm angry that you continued to let me suffer your absence, all the while, you were off playing superhero and forgetting that you'd left people at home that fucking loved you."

"John... John, I didn't know how badly it would affect you. Honestly, I never expected... I thought you'd be sad for a little while and then move on. That's what people seem to do. I didn't..."

John shook his head. "Look, I didn't come back to London to argue with you. Am I pissed? Yes. Will I get over it? Eventually."

"But... you are coming back to Baker Street?"

John shook his head. "Not right now. I can't just... slot back into the way it used to be. I'm not saying never, I'm just saying not right now. I... I'm going to head out. Mycroft."

"John."

John walked past Sherlock, not meeting his eyes as he left the office.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock asked, glaring once more at Mycroft. "What have you been telling him?"

"He didn't hear it from me," Mycroft replied quietly. "I had no idea that he knew when he arrived actually, he rather surprised me when he interrupted my telling him. It seems that Mrs Hudson told him shortly after your return."

"And it's taken him this long to get home?"

"I believe he wanted to let his anger settle some before he returned home. Otherwise, I fear you would have had a rather harsh meeting with his fist."

"I can't... I can't read him properly. Not like I used too. That's never happened before."

Mycroft nodded. "I know. He's the same for me, he often catches me off guard."

"How can I fix this, Mycroft? I want my best friend back."

Mycroft took in the utter defeat in Sherlock's eyes and sighed. "I would suggest you give him space, but as I rather doubt that's within your capabilities, I'd suggest that you don't push him to open up to you for the time being, and if he asks you to leave him alone, do as he asks, at least for a little while. I believe he still cares for you, Sherlock. You're still his best friend, regardless of his anger."

"Do you know where he's going now?"

Mycroft hesitated before answering honestly. "He said he planned to visit with Mrs Hudson, then dropping in on Gregory."

"Lestrade?"

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft nodded. "Yes, Sherlock. Detective Inspector Lestrade."

* * *

"Pub?" Greg asked when John walked into his office.

"You read my mind," John replied as the two briefly embraced. "S'good to see you mate."

"You too. Come on then, tell me about Canada!"

The discussed John's travels as they walked to the pub, both laughing and joking. When they were seated with a pint a piece, Greg raised an eyebrow.

"So. Seen him yet?"

"This morning," John admitted. "It was... I don't even know. I'm glad that I had forewarning."

"Oh?"

"Mrs Hudson a few weeks ago, and then briefly, Mycroft last night. If he'd just shown up, he'd have been chewing on my fist. Jackass."

Greg snorted. "Jesus, mate, tell me how you really feel."

"I'm glad he's alive, I just... It's Sherlock. He has absolutely no idea how his actions affect the people around him, and this was just a bigger example of that. The worst part of it, is that he thought he was doing the right thing. How can I stay mad at him when he honestly did it because it would save our lives?"

Greg nodded. "I know. At the same time, I could kill him for what he did to you. _You_ should have been told."

John's lips tilted up. "That was my argument. If he was going to tell anyone, I would have hoped it would be me."

"Have you told him what happened after?"

John shook his head. "I haven't, but I'm sure between Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, he knows at least the spark notes."

Greg grinned. "Now those conversations, I wouldn't have minded being a fly on the wall!"

"Agreed!"

* * *

When John left the bar a few hours later, he was nicely buzzed, though not drunk, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find a black car awaiting him out front.

"Doctor Watson," the driver greeted. "Mr Holmes wishes you to return to his home this evening, if you have no other plans."

John shrugged. Why not? He climbed into the back of the car, settling himself into the comfortable leather seats. He wasn't sure why Mycroft wanted his company again so soon, but he wasn't going to complain. He hadn't been relishing checking into a hotel, but the idea of going back to Baker Street was almost enough to make him break out in hives. He wondered briefly if either of the Holmes brothers had observed his somewhat not-so-small crush on Mycroft but shook the thought off. If either of them _did_ know, they would have said something.

The car pulled up, and the driver opened the door for John. Mycroft was waiting at the door, a small smile playing on his lips as John approached.

"You summoned me?" John drawled, raising his eyebrow.

"You don't want to go back to Baker Street, and I would hate to see you having to stay in a hotel," Mycroft replied easily, stepping back to allow John entrance. "I'm afraid we're not quite alone though. Sherlock is rather determined to talk to you. I will make him leave if he distresses you."

John waved him off. "It's fine. Did you have a productive day?"

Mycroft smirked. "Very."

"That smirk is terrifying," John deadpanned as he took his jacket off. "I feel like you're about to tell me to prepare myself for the apocalypse."

Sherlock appeared in the doorway before Mycroft could answer. "John."

"Sherlock," John replied, nodding his head. He followed Sherlock into the lounge, Mycroft bringing up the rear.

"Drink?" Mycroft offered.

John shook his head. "Not for me, thank you. I had enough with Greg. Anymore and I'm likely to start singing karaoke and sobbing at Disney films."

Mycroft laughed, and even Sherlock snorted.

"John... would you mind talking to me? Just for a little while?" Sherlock asked.

Surprisingly, John hated to see him looking so uncertain. It just didn't suit him. He nodded. "Kitchen, if Mycroft doesn't mind. I'm dying for a cuppa."

"Help yourself," Mycroft murmured, waving them off.

John leant his back against the kitchen side, watching Sherlock as he gathered himself to make his case.

"I know I hurt you, and I'm deeply sorry for any anguish or pain I caused you. I know I've already said this, but I honestly had no idea that my 'death' would cause you... well, I didn't think it would be so bad. I just... I thought I was doing the right thing. I never meant to hurt you."

"I know that hurting me was never your intention," John conceded. "I can't just forget the hell that I went through though. You were, are, my best friend, Sherlock. Just... how would you feel if I committed suicide right in front of your eyes? I understand that sentiment isn't something you're open about, but just, for a moment, try and imagine it. How would you feel?"

Sherlock open and closed his mouth a few times, and John saw tears well.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whimpered.

It was such a pitiful noise that John couldn't stop himself from crossing the kitchen to embrace his friend. As soon as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, the taller man fell against him, clinging to the back of his top as he buried his face in John's neck.

John stroked his back comfortingly for a few minutes, before he stepped back.

"I understand if you can't forgive me," Sherlock whispered.

"I already forgive you, you prick," John replied, rolling his eyes. "Ever do it again, and I'll kill you myself."

"I won't. I promise, John."

John nodded. "Can this be the end of it? I'm tired of being angry, and I'm tired of fighting with you. You're my best friend."

Sherlock nodded eagerly. "Does this mean you'll come home?"

"Tomorrow, alright? Just... I'll be at 221B tomorrow."

Sherlock grinned. "Then I'll leave you to it. Just so you know, Mycroft is sweet on you. I know you like him back. I don't know why, it's Mycroft for god's sake, but... well. Have a good night, John."

John watched him go, barely holding his laughter in. He shook his head, finally finishing his tea. Mycroft was waiting for him when he reentered the lounge.

"Sherlock seemed in far better spirits as he left."

John nodded. "I believe we've just 'made up.'"

"Ahh, you'll be returning to Baker Street then?"

"Tomorrow. One more night Sherlock free is too good an opportunity to give up," John murmured, sitting down beside Mycroft. "Besides, he just gave me some rather interesting information, and I thought perhaps you could help me with an experiment."

"Oh? I would have thought Sherlock was more the person to go to for help with experimentation?"

John snorted. "Actually, I'm certain that this is one experiment that I would never take to Sherlock. You're the only person I'd like to test this particular theory out on."

"Oh. Well, go ahead then, doctor."

John leant forward, watching Mycroft carefully. When he didn't pull away, John pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss, pulling back to look at Mycroft. "Is this an experiment you feel you can help me with, Mycroft?"

The question was soft, careful. Mycroft couldn't believe that John would be playing with him, he just wasn't that type of person.

"What exactly would this experiment entail?" he asked, licking his lips. "Just one night or... a longer period of time."

John smirked, lifting himself so he was leaning over Mycroft slightly. "Oh, I'm not sure I'll ever have all the details I'm looking for," he murmured. "It would be an ongoing experiment... for as long as you're amenable of course."

Mycroft raised his hands, one to John's hip to pull him closer, the other to caress John's cheek. "You should be careful, John. I'm unlikely ever to let you go if you allow me to get used to your presence."

John grinned. "Then I guess we can call the first step of the experiment a success."

Their lips met again, in a not-so-chaste kiss, and Mycroft could only agree. The experiment certainly was getting off to a fantastic start.


End file.
